Known Quality
by dragonwriter24cmf
Summary: Tag to Episode 3X15 'Lady Heather's Box'. What might have happened if Grissom had walked up to Lady Heather's door?


**Known Quality**

 **Summary:** CSI Las Vegas. Set at the end of episode 3x15, 'Lady Heather's Box'. What might have happened, if Gil had gone to the door?

It takes him a long time to come to a decision. Longer than he thinks it should. After all, wasn't it only recently said he said that he knew himself? Surely this should be easier.

But it isn't. The decision of whether or not to approach Lady Heather's door is a difficult one.

She wasn't wrong. He is terrified by how easily she reads him, how well she seems to know him, although they've only met a few times. Even more so by how easy it was for him to fall into her arms that night. This isn't like riding a roller-coaster.

Except maybe, it is. He remembers that night. Wild and sweet, the blaze of passion and the freedom of being himself, of being known for himself without judgment. A night without restraint or uncertainty, as she welcomed him and gave him ease.

In that, this is like riding a roller-coaster. But a roller-coaster you pay for, and then you get off when it's over. You leave and you come back and enjoy the ride whenever you want, no obligations besides your money and your time. The same can't be said of a relationship. At least, not this one.

He could leave. He could go home. He could stay away, give them both time to unwind before he sees her again. Come back after some time has passed, whether as a friend or as a professional. She would allow that, he knows. Professional associates, casual friends.

It's a good compromise between his desires and his fears. And it's one she would accept. Has accepted, given her words at the station. She wasn't surprised by his withdrawal any more than he was. It wasn't planned. He didn't know she was a diabetic, or that she'd switched from needles to a pressure injector. But still, once the realization occurred, it seemed inevitable that he should retreat behind the walls he's built to prevent pain.

What might not be inevitable is what he chooses now. He could choose the compromise, and it would be accepted. But the cost would be any chance to experience what he had before. No more wild sweetness in the arms of a woman who understands him without words, and gives no judgments or expectations. The trust, so simple and complex, so wonderful and terrifying at the same time, will be broken beyond repairing.

He can choose not to compromise. He can offer an apology. But she has said that apologies are only words, and he's not sure what more than words he can give her.

That's why the decision is hard. And yet, in the end, he makes it.

He almost drives off. He doesn't need any more uncertainty, any more to fear, not with the complications he already faces in his life. And yet, paradoxically, she might be the only one who can soothe the stress and strain he's endured for so long, as she soothed it the other night.

In the end, he leaves the car. He walks up to the door, a steady stride. She will either accept him or she won't. But he'll never know if he doesn't try, and he has decided to try.

He knocks, smiles blandly at the young woman who opens the door. "I've come to speak with Lady Heather, if I may?"

He doesn't know if it's courtesy, his use of her name, or the fact that he doesn't give his own that gets him in, but he does get in, and that's at least one good thing. He watches the young woman disappear, but doesn't follow her upstairs. He's not sure he's allowed, not right now.

It doesn't take long for her to appear, gliding down the stairs in her low heels and flowing dress, dark hair falling to frame her pale face and wine-red lips. Even nervous as he is, her appearance magnetizes him, entrances him, calling forth urges in his blood. He restrains himself, knowing that other matters must be taken care of.

She looks at him with dark and tranquil eyes, the mask of cool professionalism he imagines she offers her clients. "Is there a problem, Mr. Grissom?"

Use of his last name is not encouraging, the honorific even less so. Still, he knows what he's come for, and there's no point in backing away now. "Not particularly. I was wondering, however, if I might have a moment of your time?" He glances around the hallway. "In private, perhaps?"

She studies him for a moment, cool eyes giving away nothing of her emotions, then nods and turns to lead him to her private rooms. That's encouraging, though less so when she leads him to her outer sitting room, where he knows she sometimes meets her shyer clients for evaluation.

He reminds himself to take things one step at a time.

She offers him a seat, courteous even with all the thorny issues between them, then takes one herself. She doesn't offer tea, and that's a fair sign of how disappointed she is with him, and how hurt she is, though she might deny it.

"What can I do for you?" The words lack any warmth, and it makes him ache.

He wants to apologize, but he knows how she feels about that. He wants to explain, but what explanation could make this easier, or erase the tension between them?

"I..." he stops, because he suddenly knows. Knows what he wants to say, what he wants to do. An apology and an explanation and something more than words.

"I want to tell you a story."

One dark eyebrow raises, but she relaxes a little. "Interesting. Go on."

And he begins, but not just with his voice. Instead, he uses his hands, telling a story in two languages, both learned in childhood.

"My mother...was, is, a very intelligent woman. Brilliant even. A scientist. She's retired now. Also a Catholic. And a scholar. An avid reader. A lover of music. The thing is, most people don't realize this about her. The thing most people notice about my mother is the fact that she is deaf."

He sees the realization in her eyes, a tilt of her head and a twitch of her mouth that means she's listening with far more than just professional interest now.

"My mother is defined in society by her lack of hearing. They call her disabled. But...she wasn't born deaf. Her hearing loss was caused by a condition. A condition in which bony growths form around the eardrums, and prevent their vibration, causing deafness."

These words are harder to form, some of them too technical for conventional sign language. But he's told this story before, at the Institute for the Deaf, and he knows how to form them. He wonders if she knows how to read them, or is only following the words he speaks.

"When I was born, my mother had a full range of hearing. She began to lose her hearing when I was a child. By the time I was in high school, she was deaf."

He pauses, trying to sort out how to tell her the rest. In the end, he decides to continue. Flow of consciousness. Tell the story as simply as he can.

"My mother taught me sign language. She taught me not to judge other people. She taught me that different doesn't necessarily mean handicapped. That the loss of hearing, or vision, or height doesn't make a person less than other people. But...the thing she couldn't teach me...was whether or not I would have the same condition. Or how to deal with it."

This is the hardest part, the part he has trouble with, and his hands and voice move slower. "Last year, I began to experience difficulties hearing. Mostly high-pitched or low pitched sounds. The doctor confirmed that I have the same condition as my mother. Over the past several months, my condition has gotten worse. Several times, I've lost my ability to hear what people are saying. A few months ago, I almost endangered a case, because I couldn't understand the questions I was asked at the trial. The worst part is...this doesn't happen all the time. I don't always know when I've stopped hearing, until someone asks me a direct question."

There's concern in her expression, but not pity, and not condemnation, and that makes it easier to continue. "If I lose my hearing completely...I don't know how to be a CSI. I've spent my entire career working in this field. But so much of our work depends on what you can hear...ambient noise, tone of voice, background noises...I can't do my job effectively if I can't hear these things. Worse, I could endanger my team, because I don't hear a warning, don't hear a car or a gunshot...I don't want to become a liability. And I will."

"But it's more than that. I enjoy studying entomology. How can I continue, if I don't understand what sounds insects make? I love opera music, but without hearing, I can't enjoy it any longer. Losing my hearing means losing a lot of things, and I'm not sure I'm ready for that."

"I'm not sure I'm ready for a life where people define me by what I don't have, rather than what I do. I've watched my mother try to live with that, with people judging her for being deaf. Just recently, I investigated a murder where a boy was killed, because he was deaf and two young men decided to rough him up, then lost control when he didn't respond. They didn't even realize that he couldn't respond, that he couldn't hear them."

"There is a surgery that might restore my hearing. But if anything goes wrong, I'll lose it forever. And there's a chance the condition will reoccur. If that happens, I'll only have delayed the inevitable. I don't know which is worse."

He doesn't think he's ever spoken so much at one time. Certainly not about himself. Never about something so personal. This is as vulnerable as he's ever dared to be, with anyone. The most he's ever shared.

He thinks she understands. Either way, he can see in her eyes that she isn't expecting an answer when she speaks. "What do your friends and team-mates say?"

He answers anyway. "I haven't told them. I don't want them to worry."

"You don't want to see the pity and concern in their eyes."

"Yes."

She leans forward, eyes intent and alive and warm in a way they weren't when she greeted him in the entrance hall. "And why would you tell me?"

He considers that, then answers honestly. "Apologies are just words. So are these...but there's a difference, and I thought you would understand that. And I know...you see me differently than they do."

This is the first time he's referenced the divide between them. But since he's here and she's listening, he continues. "I didn't know you were a diabetic when I...when I was with you. I didn't know about your needles, or your pressure pen. Not until you told me. But once I knew, it was a connection I couldn't afford to ignore."

"You could have asked, instead of calling for a warrant and making me a suspect." There's a hint of anger there, anger he deserves.

"Yes. But I was afraid. Afraid my judgment would be called into question. And I let that fear determine my actions. What I did...was what protocol demanded I do. That doesn't make it right, and it doesn't make it fair, and it doesn't mean there was no other way to handle it. But...I want you to understand...the fact that I was with you meant that doing anything else would make people question my judgment. I was afraid that, if people started looking closer, asking questions…I was afraid they'd see what you see."

"That you're losing your hearing."

"And so much more." His hands are beginning to ache with the sign language. He doesn't use it that often, and never so much of it at one time. Even in conversations at the Institute, there's a back and forth that gives him more time to rest.

Perhaps she senses it, sees it in his movements or in his eyes. In any case, she stands, and walks across to sit next to him, taking his hands in hers. "Words indeed."

Her touch is gentle and careful, and he could pull away if he wants to. The other night, he controlled their encounter. He supposes he still does, but this time she's the one making the first move.

She looks him in the eyes, and he appreciates the casual and yet careful way she speaks, compensating for any possible loss on his part while still making it look like effortless conversation. "What is it you want?"

What does he want? He wants somewhere safe, someone who can help him deal with all the turmoil he faces. Someone he can go to with his fears and uncertainties. Someone who won't look at him with pity or concern or confusion.

He considers his co-workers and team his friends. But they wouldn't and don't understand this. He's seen that in them, when they've dealt with the deaf and the short and others who are different in a way that conventional human norms label disabled. Or the people who are different in other ways. They wouldn't understand. They would scold and yell and ask why he never told them sooner, never understanding how difficult this is. And then they'd be concerned, asking if he's okay, trying to awkwardly compensate when they have no idea how to cope. Catherine would probably manage the easiest, but Nick and Sarah...how would they ever learn to deal with him in such a situation?

Heather, on the other hand, understands. She copes with everything in her line of work, makes a living dealing with the strangeness of the human condition. Serving the deaf and disabled might not be her usual line of work, but she already has the mindset to cope.

She already knows his secrets, his fears.

He meets her eyes, but it's his hands that say the words, rather than his voice. "Is it possible to say stop, and then to start again?"

Amusement lights her eyes, the first he's seen all night. "Of course. Not everyone is comfortable enough to go all the way in their first session. Learning oneself and one's desires is a process, after all."

"I still think I know myself. However..." He drops his eyes, looking away from her face for the first time all evening. It's a risk. He might not hear what she says. Might not understand. "Is it possible for us...to come back? For me?"

A long moment of silence. Or perhaps it's not silent, but that's what he hears. Then her hands move. Easy and graceful. _'Yes. Is that what you want?'_

He didn't know she could speak sign language. It doesn't surprise him. He answers in kind. _'Yes.'_

 _'I'll make the tea.'_

He knows then, as she stands and moves away, that he's been forgiven. That his apology has been accepted. That they'll move on from here. What will happen after this, after tea and whatever conversation they have is unknown. Perhaps he'll go home. Perhaps he'll sleep in the guest room (why she has a guest room he may never know, but it's not important). Perhaps he'll stay and bask in the tranquil atmosphere of her rooms while she goes and manages her employees.

Perhaps they'll come together again, back into that roller-coaster of passion and warmth and so much more. Perhaps he'll lose his balance and his sense in her eyes and her arms again.

Perhaps they'll exchange quotes and witticisms in sign language and words he might not hear, enjoying the banter of friendship.

He doesn't know. But there are certain things he does know, and these he takes comfort from.

Lady Heather will understand what he needs. Companionship, tea or something more. She'll understand, and she'll offer it, whether he needs a friend or a lover.

Heather knows his secrets, his fears for the future. And here, he has no fear of judgment, no fear of pity or scorn or anger or smothering concern. Only understanding. Here he can relax, free from the cares that have driven him lately to avoid his team and avoid fieldwork. Here he has found relief from the tension that knots his shoulders and makes his neck ache. Here he does not have to be in charge, in control, or in command.

He doesn't know what he'll do, what she'll do, or where this will go. But what he does know is that he and his secrets are safe.

And that's enough for him.

 ** _Author's Note:_** **** _Grissom made me..._


End file.
